


The Trouble with Music Appreciation

by hannibalsredsweater



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hannibal likes to quote himself, I mean he likes to quote Igor Stravinksy, Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sexy Times, hannibloom, harpsichord sex, swiggity swag harpsichord sex is a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:24:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibalsredsweater/pseuds/hannibalsredsweater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal and Alana have sex on the harpsichord. Sort of.</p>
<p>I suck at summaries. My apologies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trouble with Music Appreciation

**Author's Note:**

> This little one-shot was inspired by the piano sex scene in _Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky_, in which Mads Mikkelsen plays Stravinksy. If you haven't seen this movie yet, do yourself a favor and watch it ASAP. Mads has like 3 sex scenes in this movies and they're all awesome. Oh, and the acting. Yeah. 
> 
> This fic is un-beta'd, so all mistakes are my own.

“The trouble with music appreciation in general is that people are taught to have too much respect for music they should be taught to love it instead.”  
\- Igor Stravinsky

 

She wakes up to an empty bed; Hannibal is nowhere to be found. Although she knows that he’s naturally an early riser who normally wakes up before she does on lazy weekends, he’s usually still in bed with her, reading a book silently to himself, or checking the news in his tablet. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she shivers when the cold air of the large bedroom touches her skin. She stands and wraps her arms around her naked body, as she finds something suitable to wear downstairs.

She's wearing nothing but his light blue dress shirt, her favorite of his to borrow, it seems. The blue cotton drowns her small frame, the length long enough to barely maintain her modesty. She quietly walks out of the bedroom, when she hears the distinctive twang of the harpsichord coming from downstairs. It’s not a song she’s familiar with, having heard Hannibal play many times. He’s also stopping rather frequently. Alana smiles to herself when she realizes that he must be composing a new piece. 

Composing. She wonders what experience he’s choosing to metabolize through music at the moment. Walking as silently as she can, she makes her way downstairs, following the sound of Hannibal playing in the sitting room. The dark, hardwood floor is cool on the soles of her bare feet as she enters the room stealthily, genuinely surprised that he hasn’t heard her yet. 

She lets her eyes wander as she gets closer to him, taking in the broad expanse of his shoulders and arms, muscles moving fluidly beneath the soft weave of his favorite red sweater, as his fingers caress the ebony keys of the antique harpsichord. He stops briefly, picks up his fountain pen, and carefully presses the nib to the lined paper on his music stand. He crosses out a few notes and returns his pen to the base of the music stand. As he resumes his playing, he leans in closer to the harpsichord and closes his eyes, his hair falling to cover his forehead. 

When she places her small hands on his shoulders, he tenses slightly and sits upright, but then quickly relaxes. His fingers on the keys stop. He leans back into her, craning his neck to look up at her. “Good morning, my dear. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

She runs hers fingers up shoulders, his neck, and his head where they finally entangle themselves in his messy, morning hair. Leaning in, she places a kiss on the top of his head. “I woke up and noticed you were gone, so I came to see what you were doing.” She continues to card her fingers through his hair and looks over his shoulder to the hand-notated sheets of music on his harpsichord. “What are you working on?”

Hannibal smiles and turns to face the music in front of him, “Stravinsky said that the trouble with music appreciation is that people are taught to have too much respect for music. They should be taught to love it instead.” He brushes his fingers along the black keys, his eyes moving to his hands. “I’m composing a piece that I hope you will love, rather than respect it simply because I wrote it for you.”

Without saying a word, Alana works her way between him and the harpsichord. She slides a hand beneath the waistband of his pajama bottoms, her fingers wrapping around his cock. She begins to stroke along its length, coaxing him to hardness. Feeling his flesh respond to her touch, she steadily increases her pace on his cock. With her free hand, she gently grasps his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“What do I inspire in you, Hannibal?” Her eyes darken with both lust and love, searching for something in his that tells that he feels the same way. 

Although he is tempted to close his eyes and savor the feeling of her soft fingers, he wants to watch her. He knows that she enjoys being the aggressor, that she relishes in showing her dominance over him. He licks his bottom lip and returns her stare, his own eyes burning with desire for Alana. “You inspire many feelings, my sweet Ms. Bloom.” He bites back a moan as her movements on his cock continue. “Admiration. Awe. …” He bucks his hips ever-so-slightly into her hand, choosing to lose his control selectively, knowing what it does to her. “You inspire L…”

Before he can finish, she lets go of his chin and instead covers his mouth with her hand. She’s too scared to let the word escape from his lips. She stops stroking him and moves both of her hands to his waistband. With a few quick tugs, his bottoms are down and his erection is free, the tip leaking precum from her ministrations. She straddles him and lifts the borrowed shirt she’s wearing to expose her naked hips as she positions herself so that she is sliding slick along his cock. She rubs herself on him, making sure that his shaft stimulates her clit just so, teasing herself and Hannibal at the same time. 

Enough is enough and suddenly, he’s inside her, impaling her on his cock with a guttural groan. He watches her face as his hips thrust up to meet hers, watching how her eyes grow impossibly big and oh so very blue at the sudden invasion. Despite his position beneath her, he’s in control now. He makes quick work of unbuttoning her shirt, baring her pert breasts, pressing her bare chest to his. He’s painfully aware of the fact that he’s wearing to many clothes, but he doesn’t care, no, he can’t care, not with Alana writhing above him, riding him. His hands travel up her torso, her sides, caressing her breasts, then moving to cup her face. He brings her down for a deep kiss as he thrusts into her. 

She breaks the kiss when she throws her head back, exposing the pale flesh of her neck. Her hands grasp his shoulders, seeking something, anything to steady her as cants her hips against his, grinding her clit against the base of his cock. The feeling of him filling her so completely, the stimulation inside and outside of her, his hands on her skin, the sound of his groans, are slowly driving her crazy. She can feel her lust pooling deep in her belly as her orgasm builds.

His eyes snap open when she shifts their position. Their centers of gravity are off, the rhythm of their hips growing less controlled as they get closer and closer to falling off the edge of the bench. He grasps her hips firmly to hold them both steady since the bench they’re fucking on wasn’t meant for these kinds of activities. Once he is able to stabilize their precarious position, he pulls her towards him again, holding her close to him as he thrusts up into her. 

Although their movements are far from precise, Alana can tell that Hannibal is making a great effort at keeping them upright. She stops the movements of her hips and pulls away from Hannibal.

Confusion momentarily flashes in his dark eyes, his breathing uneven and labored, “Are you okay? Is everything...”

Alana grins and leans back, her elbows resting against the solid top of the harpsichord. The sudden change of position feels more secure. She slowly rolls her hips against his and laughs, “Shut up and fuck me, Hannibal.”

He grasps her hips once more, using their new angle to brush his cock directly along that bundle of nerves inside of her. “Alana, my darling…there’s…no…need…to be…so…crass.” He punctuates each word of his admonishment with a thrust, hoping to make sure that she knows that he will not tolerate rudeness, even in their most intimate moments.

Alana can feel the hard edge of the harpsichord on her back, her body shivering as she begins to orgasm. She cries out, Hannibal’s name on her lips as wave after wave of pleasure course through her. Her vision goes dark as she clenches her eyes shut, her senses overwhelmed as she continues to come.

He can feel her tighten around his cock as she orgasms, the sound of her losing herself completely sending him over the edge as well. His fingers dig into her hips as he comes inside of her, his hips bucking haphazardly. 

Her limp body sags against the harpsichord, feeling completely and utterly spent. Using her last ounce of strength she pulls herself back up and leans against Hannibal. She wraps are arms around him and sighs, her lips catching his in a leisurely kiss.

He sits back and presses his forehead against her, a satisfied smile on his face. “I don’t think this is what Stravinsky meant when he said that people should love music, Alana.” 

She laughs and pushes sweaty strands of hair off of Hannibal’s forehead, “Well, Stravinsky obviously never had sex while composing.”

**Author's Note:**

> I should be sleeping, but I wrote porn instead. Yay!


End file.
